of Maya Chen, the attorney who had handled my father’s estate and, more recently, my asset-protection plan.
At 9:14 p.m., I sent Eric one message: You have until 8:00 tomorrow morning to remove your guests voluntarily.
He replied with a laughing emoji.
Then Diane texted from his phone: Grow up.
Useful. I saved everything.
Maya met me in the conference room wearing sweatpants under her winter coat. She had known me for twelve years and understood that when I called after nine, something had gone seriously wrong.
